


Flowers Under a Desert Sun

by ACoward



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:29:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23605339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACoward/pseuds/ACoward
Summary: The Heavy was content with keeping his feelings a secret, at least, until he started coughing up flowers.
Relationships: Heavy/Medic (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> More pinning Heavy?? It's more likely than you think.   
> I don't own TF2 or its characters, I also love a comma.

_**Flowers Under a Desert Sun** _

At first, Heavy didn't take much notice of the tightness in his chest when he would look at the Medic. If he was being completely honest, he often felt strange when he was near the other man. It wasn't a bad feeling, not by any means, but it was a new, confusing feeling that the weapons specialist wasn't exactly used to. He often felt nervous when he caught the other’s eye. Hot under the color even in the air conditioned infirmary. He hadn't felt this way with any other person he had met, but the Medic was different. Medic was his friend, he had been for the better part of a year now, ever since they both signed their contracts and had been whisked away to this old fort in the middle of the New Mexican desert. 

The Doctor was strange, to put it simply. Heavy found he often didn't have the words to describe the man, even in his precious native language. Medic was eccentric. He always went at full speed, and didn't slow down for anyone. He was completely dedicated to his work- whatever that work may be. Heavy admired how brave he was on the battlefield, how intelligent he was in conversation. How when he was with Heavy he would smile (his honest smile, not his surgery one.)

Heavy also noticed small things about his doctor, too. How he always gelled his hair back, even on their days off. Hiding the short curls except the stubborn one in front. How he would baby-talk his birds in his native German when he thought no one could hear him. How he would get lost in his thoughts when Heavy took too long to move a chess piece. How he was always cold, and kept a small electric heater by his desk, even in the summer heat. 

It was also hard for him to not notice just how handsome the doctor was. Heavy didn't care much for looks. To him it was a bonus on an already amazing man. A man he slowly realized he was in love with. He wasn't sure if it had happened suddenly, or if the feeling of love had crept up on him like a cloaked Spy. 

However, to Heavy, some things were better left unsaid. He would never tell the other man how he felt. His friendship was too valuable to him. He didn't want to lose the doctor due to his silly feelings. He also knew that falling in love with a man- let alone a man he worked with, was a dangerous move he didn't want to make. He knew what could happen to men like him. He had seen it in the camps. He knew that Medic’s country hadn't been any better. He didn't know if he could lose his job here at RED. He didn't know if having feelings like he did would ever be safe, even in America. He certainly didn't want to drag the good doctor down with him. 

Luckily, the fact he was in love with the German was easy to hide. That was, until he started coughing. 

It started simply enough. He was sitting in his room one evening after dinner, polishing his precious gun, Sasha. He had a chess game with the doctor scheduled later that night, that he was looking forward to. On weekends like this, they would play and talk long into the night. He supposed that thinking about the doctor then was what caused the tightness in his chest to return. He coughed, then coughed again. The tightness grew to a worryingly degree. He struggled to catch his breath as he leaned over his desk, coughing into his fist. 

It took a few long moments for the fit to subside, and he took a few deep breaths after. It was then that he noticed just what he had coughed up. A single, small, purple flower bud lay in the palm of his hand. A tiny bloom of lilac. So fragile looking in his oversized hand.

This wasn't good at all. His mother had told him stories as a boy about Hanahaki, a sickness of sorts born from a hidden love. Unattended feelings turned to flowers, and they would continue to bloom in the lungs until the person decided on three options. They could cut away the disease, along with the feelings they had for the other person, they could confess, and if the love was returned the flowers would wilt and go away. Or the person could die. A simple thing, really. Very poetic, Heavy thought, as a man who loved poetry. He supposed that the authors he read were right when they said that love kills. 

He called off the chess game with his doctor that night, afraid that seeing the man would encourage another coughing fit. He sat still on his bed and thought about what to do. 

Maybe the flowers would go away by themselves. If not, maybe they would go away when he went through respawn on Monday. His body would be reset to a time when his lungs didn't decide to turn against him and become home to a bunch of lilac. If not, there were few options. He could confess or he could cut away the flowers. Both options scared him more than anything. He didn't want to lose the Medic, and it seemed no matter what option he picked that would happen. He wasn't going to let this disease kill him. What would his family think if he died not in battle, but by choking to death on his own unrequited love? But what would his family think if he lost his job at Team Fortress Industries because he confessed said love? 

He stared at the small bloom in his upturned hand. Such a small, pretty thing. He knew that it wouldn't stay that way. More would bloom. He had heard stories about the bloody end of cowards who did or said nothing. He would not become one of them. That he was sure of. He decided to wait until Monday. Maybe respawn would save him from the mess his heart had gotten him into. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, remember when I said "Yeah sure guys the next chapter will be out soon!" Welp. It's uh, been a few months, hasn't it? I honestly lost a lot of motivation, and couldn't get this chapter to sound right. I'm sorry for the delay, but I do hope you all like this chapter, and that the next one will be out sooner rather than later. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and for all the lovely comments. They really helped me keep going at it with this fanfiction. It really means so much. <3

Heavy never saw anything when he died. There were no bright lights or shining tunnels to walk towards. There was no heavenly music or burning flames. There was simply the fleeting feeling of weightlessness, and then nothing. Just darkness. It was a lot like falling asleep for him, except when he would wake up he would be in the bright and clean respawn room, ready to go out and die again. There would be nothing to even show for dying; just a ghost of a pain from a grievous wound that no longer existed.

It was a prominent part of working for Team Fortress Industries. Every single one of them died nearly every day, (some more than others). Although it happened often, dying was never a very pleasant experience. If you happened to be fighting a losing battle, and there was no dispenser or Medic around, you’d better hope that whoever was trying to kill you would do it as efficiently and pain-free as possible.

The pain of death was always to be feared, but never death itself.

On the battlefield with his trusty minigun, Heavy was a beacon of death. He would mow down countless men, watching on with a sense of satisfaction as their blue colors exploded into red as Sasha’s bullets ripped them apart. He took a pride in his work. Dying to him was almost merciful in a way. It was quick, at least. He was good at what he was paid to do.

As he shot down his opponents in the heat of the dying afternoon sun, he had time to think. It was like standing in the eye of a storm, the chaos he caused didn't seem to reach his ears.

Heavy was hoping for a quick death today. He had been wondering about the small blooms spreading in his lungs, and possible ways (not including surgery or confessions) to make them disappear. He had a hypothesis, as his Doctor would call it, that going through the respawn system would reset his body to a time where the flowers were less, or even gone completely. That way, he could keep his life, his job, and his friendship with the Medic.

In the few days since the problem first arose, it became increasingly harder to hide his condition from his fellow teammates. He was never a very social man by any means, but the others, oddly enough, seemed to enjoy his company. Worse so, the Medic had realized all too quickly that he personally was being avoided.

_He really was too clever for his own good, sometimes._

He had knocked on Heavy’s door one night, after Misha had canceled yet another one of their chess games. He had looked worried, which hurt Heavy’s heart more than his lungs in the moment. The German was worried for him. It was also a relatively new look for the man. The Medic’s face hardly gave away his true feelings, (Unless it was morbid curiosity. Which _was_ a true assumption for the most part.)

Heavy swallowed these feelings, and shot down the Doctor’s questions, stating simply that he didn't feel well.

Now that he thought about it, saying that he didn't feel well was probably the worst possible thing he could have said to the Medic, for the doctor’s attention was on him even more for it. He offered to cut open the Russian and fix whatever was ailing him.

Looking into the Medic’s worried blue eyes and feeling the resulting tightness in his chest, Misha almost agreed to it.

A blue sentry exploded as Misha turned his gun on it. He blinked, realizing he had been caught up in his own thoughts yet again. Shooting the little baby men on BLU was a good time to _think_ , not zone out completely. He fought down the urge to cough. Thinking about the Medic’s pretty blue eyes would do him no good during battle.

He sighed deeply in frustration, his nostrils flaring as he looked out at the carnage before him. There were no more BLU’s around him to kill, until they respawned, of course. However, it would take a while for the machines to piece the fallen men back together after all the damage he had caused them with his minigun.

Heavy knew he had to rejoin his team by the point they were there to capture, but he really didn't want to return to them. He didn't want the Doctor’s pretty eyes on him, trying to pick him apart piece by piece to try to find a diagnosis. He didn't want to see his charming smile when he got a kill and feel like his lungs were going to come up in his throat.

And honestly? Right now was the perfect time to test out his hypothesis. He figured he could die now and respawn before his team even realized he was gone. If he stepped out of the cover of the bridge, it wouldn't be long until the enemy Sniper spotted him, and put a painless bullet into his brain.

He was almost there when he felt a presence behind him, and turned, ready for a Spy. Instead, there stood the Medic, his medigun in hand and a small, worried smile on his face. Heavy’s ears rang as his chest tightened to a painful degree, and he hardly made out the words the Doctor said. Something about asking how he was feeling, and something about a rescheduled chess match for that night. Heavy didn't know how to respond.

Thankfully, Heavy didn't have to come up with an answer, because everything went dark, and then he came too in the respawn room. Huh. The Sniper must have relocated.

He stood in the cool empty room for a few moments, his eyes closed, and breathed. He remembered offhandedly his mother telling him to always breath in four seconds, hold for seven, and then exhale for eight. He thought hard about the Medic, and the lilacs, and opened his eyes in shock when he felt nothing. There was no pain, no tightness. Nothing. He smiled in triumph. He had won this game of life and death and love and flowers! No sickness could ever break him.

He grabbed his supplies and raced back to his teammates, a little quicker than normal. He felt light, and powerful. The Medic was standing almost right where he was left, wiping blood off of his glasses onto the tail of his coat, which also had specks of blood on it. Misha realized, with an air of embarrassment, that it was his own blood decorating the Medic’s round spectacles.

The Doctor turned his head to him as he approached, a frustrated frown on his face. However, it didn't last as he put back on the smeared glasses and saw how Misha was smiling at him. “You’ve seemed distracted lately.” he commented. “Are you still feeling ill?”

Misha looked at him and felt an overwhelming feeling of love, but no pain. He laughed. _He had won_. “It won’t be a problem anymore, Dockor.” he answered.

The battle ended shortly after, with the RED team coming out victorious. They had been on a winning streak lately, and he watched as his team retreated from the re-supply room to go and celebrate. Probably with copious amounts of alcohol.

He watched the Doctor leave with the Engineer, chatting to the short Texan man about some new idea he had been having. They had rescheduled their chess game for tonight. Heavy was actually really looking forward to it. He put down his gun, promising it that he would come back later and polish her. He smiled to himself.

And then he coughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone! What do you think will happen next?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments.


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